


A Gilded Cage

by Laclavande



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, I loved the series 3 finale but I also love drama, might do something more with this later but rn it's 1am and i'm just glad i finally wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 00:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laclavande/pseuds/Laclavande
Summary: Over time, Aramis' happy ending feels more like a punishment than a reward.





	A Gilded Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Lady__Neve’s lovely pessimistic comment on my fic 'One Year On':  
> "Aramis appears to be a bird in a gilded cage here forever paying the price of committing treason to save the Queen. It seems a Hell worthy of Dante."
> 
> It took a while, but I finally got around to it. Tried to make it as miserable as possible. Enjoy!

Aramis closed the door after the messenger and leaned his head against it for a moment, sighing. His grip slipped from the doorknob as he turned to press his back to the door. Trapped. That’s how he felt. Trapped in that room, trapped in his role, trapped in this life. He had been a fool to consider his appointment a happy ending. No, becoming First Minister was no great reward for a life of loyalty and bravery. It was a punishment— a result of his treason. God had put him on Earth to be a soldier, why did he put that divine plan aside?

Aramis’ hands slid down his face as he stepped away from the door. He sat down at his desk with another sigh. Peacocks squawked in the gardens outside. They irritated Aramis so much, and it wasn’t just because of the noise. They were beautiful birds, but the palace they were decoration for was their prison. Aramis could relate to that.

He opened the top drawer of his desk. Resting atop the stack of paper was the crucifix, the chain snaking the length of the drawer and dropping off the edge of the paper. Aramis didn’t wear it anymore. He didn’t think he needed to since Anne was so close, but looking at it now, Aramis didn’t _want_ to wear it. He loved Anne dearly, but it was a struggle. He saw d’Artagnan and Constance in their perfect marriage, their affection obvious. He saw Athos and Sylvie and the son that calls Athos papa, and the daughter that says the same of Porthos… It wasn’t fair.

Aramis’ love for the Queen was not like that of his friends’ love for their wives. Love hurts, of course it does, but Aramis’ love hurt more than it should. Throughout his life, he had loved women in secret— he had been good at it. But trapped in that room, in his role, in his life, it almost didn’t seem worth it anymore.

Aramis had been sinking in his unhappiness, deeper and deeper as time went on. He had begun to distance himself from his brothers, the men that still conducted themselves in the spirit of the Musketeers, for envy of their happy marriages. The caring and very perceptive woman that she was, Anne had noticed. She despaired for him but said nothing for fear of losing him altogether. Another heartbreak was not something she wanted to face. But the messenger he had sent had been for her, telling her majesty that he could no longer attend their ritual luncheon, which most days was their only chance to be together in private.

Sitting at his desk, Aramis rested one hand in a fist on his face, the other, absently fondling the jewelled crucifix still in the drawer. Suddenly, the Queen stormed in. Aramis jumped and quickly closed the drawer as he stood up.

“Your majesty.”

“Leave us,” she said to her entourage, and they obliged, closing the door and shuffling away down the corridor. Anne had kept her composure in the presence of her ladies, but now alone she was visibly upset. Aramis’ coldness had turned frozen, and she had come to argue with him as she knew they eventually would have to. She stood across from him, her hands neatly placed above her skirt in her usual rigid posture.

“Do you hate me so, you won’t even speak to me face to face to tell me you don’t want to see me?”

Aramis shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“It’s not that. I’m very busy-”

“I know exactly how busy you are,” interrupted Anne, who had no time for his excuses, “and I know for a fact that your work is not so that you cannot make time for…” She paused, wanting to say ‘ _your family_ ’, but even in this private space she could not say it. Instead, she said,

“For me.”

Aramis was silent. He frowned at the swirling gold pattern that cornered the blotter on his desk, unable to muster the courage to look her in the eye.

“What is wrong with you?!” Anne cried when Aramis said nothing, “You’re supposed to be present in my life, in the King’s life! I don’t think he’d even recognise you if you met him today.”

Aramis shook his head,

“That’s not true…”

“You’ve been distancing yourself for months,” Anne continued, ignoring his denial as she drifted over to him, closing the space between them, “I demand to know why… Is it because you resent me?”

Only the desk separated them now. The desk and their duty.

Aramis finally looked up at her. She was staring at him, furious, though vulnerable. The message for her had been a total insult. Louis used to communicate with her via messenger on the rare occasion that he had reason to say anything to her at all, and her heart ached for her to be loved and treated like any good woman should. She had hoped that Aramis would be the one to do that. She had hoped so much that his being in the palace and working alongside her would be the best possible way for them to be together given their circumstances, but now he was rejecting her— and even worse, rejecting their son.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said softly. Anne lifted her chin proudly as if she were issuing a command,

“An apology is not acceptable… Fix it.”

Aramis looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, a woman who he respected more than any other, a woman who he had no choice but to love in secret. That secret was killing him.

He was a soldier who could not fight.

He was a father without his child.

He was a peacock trapped in a beautiful garden.

“I don’t know if I can.”


End file.
